


ride nice dick

by badAquatic



Series: Trailerstuck [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Crossdressing, Illustrated, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:37:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trailerstuck Side Story 2: You’ve been dreading this day but you have to do it. You have to bite the bullet, bury your dignity, get on your knees and call in a favor or two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. dualscar

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a hustler  
> I just want you to know  
> It aint where I been  
> But where I'm bout to go  
> Now I just wanna love you  
> But be who I am  
> And with all this cash  
> You'll forget your man  
> Now give it to me  
> \- Troll Tori Amos

**== >Eridan: Go to sleep**

 

You can’t sleep because your grandfather is coughing loudly in the next room and you can’t find your ear plugs. They rolled under your bed not five minutes ago and with all that dirt and cobwebs on them, well, they may as well be property of the rats and spiders now. So you stay awake; listening to your grandfather hack up a lung.

After another five minute coughing fit, there is a forty minute interval of silence.

You can’t even hear wheezing now.

You leave your bedroom abruptly and enter your grandfather’s room. You tried to make his room as comforting since he can’t leave it. There are trophies of massive fish on the wall, a fang from a colossal seahorror he told you he shot straight through its compound eyes, jeweled lures, whalebone harpoons with intricate carvings, and preserved sea specimens in jars. You wish you could have kept more of your grandfather’s things: the fine silk garments and capes, the swords, the guns, the family jewels and heirlooms that would have been yours. You’re thankful for the cataracts in his right eye, so he can’t tell his rings and precious materials have been replaced with glass and plastic substitutes.

Your grandfather’s recuperacoon is sequestered in the corner, which you’ve had to repair with duct tape time and time again. He’s neck-gill deep in lime green slime.  It smells strongly of sopor. You know it’s risky to let him sleep in such a high concentration but he needs it to sleep through the night. You can afford it; sopor grows in the ground after all.  You run your fingers along his ribbed throat, checking his pulse. You pray to the gods the dosage isn't too high. Oh gods. Please don’t be—

A large, scarred hand grabs your thin wrist. Your grandfather’s bruised eyes slowly open. He looks at you, squinting. He’s nearly blind now that he’s dependent on his weaker left eye.

“What do you think you’re doing, boy?” he drawls in Old Alternian, “You should know better than to enter the respiteblock of your ancestor without—”

He shudders and breaks off into another series of wracking coughs. He doubles over and you see the slime is now flecked with violet. You grimace and try to rub his back, feeling the hard calluses growing on his skin.

 

“Ancestor,” you respond in Old Alternian, “you shouldn’t be movin’ too fast. You need your rest.”

“This is nothing compared to hunting for seahorrors along the Noir Islands, or facing down the Grand Highblood in his Mirthful Citadel back on grand Alternia.” your grandfather growls, “I have survived worse and I will survive thi— _fuck_!”

He gives another rough, phlegmy cough. You search around for a paper napkin and see they’ve all been used. You do find a towel though and press it against his mouth. He gives another raspy cough and shudders violently. You feel moisture drip through the already stained towel. You pull the towel away and prop your grandfather against the recuperacoon wall. Violet blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth, which you quickly wipe it away.  

“Ancestor, I plead with you to take it easy.” you murmur, “You need all your strength right now.”

“I have all my strength. I won’t be defeated by this pathetic planet. The yellow sun here is nothing compared to the blazing orb of glorious Alternia. This is a planet made for the weak apes and the lizards and those lowly bugs; not us mighty seadwellers. Not us trolls. Seadwelling trolls will rule this planet just as they ruled Alternia…”

You stand up, clutching the soiled towel, “I’ll prepare you some tea.”

“Tea is the drink of lowbloods and landwellers! Bring me wine!”

“…I’ll see what I can do.”

The only wine you could afford would come in a box. You leave the room and look at the once-yellow-now-thoroughly-violet towel. The other towels have scars of your battle with your grandfather’s illness; violet spots here and there that you can’t scrub or bleach out. It’s a miracle your grandfather is still alive. He can’t abide hot liquids and even a hearty gumbo is too much food for him. So it’s been strict tea and broth, the only thing he can keep down. Of course he complains about eating “lowblood meals” but he doesn’t have the strength to fight you anymore. On his worse days he can’t even vocally complain; just scowl when he sees you with his food.  

You discard the stained towel in the laundry basket.

You go about your night. You try to offer your grandfather tea but he refuses. He curses at you in Old Alternian and demands that you bring Meenah over so he can insult her for not “owning up to her proud lineage”. You’re too tired to fight him tonight. You make yourself some green tea and try to ignore the storm of profanity. He’s an old troll who hasn’t properly adjusted to a non-nocturnal night cycle. You try to feed him earlier because he’s more tired.

Your room is very bare. There is the recuperacoon, your daybed, and your clothes neatly folded on a wobbly folding table. You sit on your daybed. Your grandfather’s cursing is now at the sputter-stop phase where he swears, coughs, swears more, and then eventually falls asleep

Sometimes he stays asleep for the whole night. But most often the coughing wakes him up in a few minutes.

 

**== >Eridan: Give your grandfather his medication**

You can’t do that, for multiple reasons. For one thing medication is expensive as fuck for a troll his size and age. Another thing is that you don’t have health insurance. The only reason you were able to get him this far is because you used up all the vouchers getting him one dose. It was able to beat back the infection...before it started up again. You know that you can’t keep him on an on-off pattern of medication. He needs meds consistently if he’s going to survive.

Of course there is that giant fucking cement roadblock on that path: money. In copious amounts. Without insurance, the meds are 200B a pill. Over a period of seven days that’s four thousand two hundred boondollars.

Which is cash you don’t have, but cash you desperately need. You’ve been dreading this day but you have to do it. You have to bite the bullet, bury your dignity, get on your knees and call in a favor or two.

But who exactly? You’re not graced in the friends department and most of the people you know are in the same shitty creek without a paddle as you. After that punch in the jaw earlier today, Karkat wouldn’t toss loose change your way to save Dualscar. Your mother would rather see Dualscar shrivel up like fried squid, and the same goes for your father and Meenah. Feferi is no better off than you moneywise and she’s got troubles of her own. You wouldn’t feel right borrowing money from Equius since that’s taking food out of his future kid’s mouth. Nitram’s an asshole and Captor…oh _gods_ no. You’d be humiliated having to beg either from help.

You look at your aged palmhusk. Your Trollichum app is always running. Everyone is listed offline. It’s early evening though; most people are either still up and invisible, or have yet to return home from work.

You frown, feeling indecisive. You decide to let the gods do their work. You remove the prayer beads from around your throat and look at them. They’re wood carved beads painted green and purple-pink; colors belonging to the Maestro of Lonesome Hearts—your patron god. At the end of the prayer beads is a plastic jewel carved with the symbol of your faith: Alternian Traditionalist. You shut your eyes and let the jewel hover over the palmhusk.

You need fortune on your side this time, not hope in your quadrants. You need the work of a careful, lucky hand. You offer a prayer to She Who Steals Luck— _Bona Fortuna Mala_ , that fickle bejeweled goddess with the golden curls and sapphire eyes and horns, who either rains down wealth on her worshippers or a swarm of misfortune. Like all of the gods, she has two sides: lawful and chaotic. In her lawful mood, she is wealth and victory. Chaotic, she is greed and swindling. You pray that you catch the attention of her lawful side and focus on your prayer. If this doesn’t work, you’ll have to go to start offering tribute to her instead of the Maestro.

Five minutes of straight prayer passes; you don’t give up and continue chanting in a low voice. Your palmhusk vibrates. You open your eyes and look at the screen.

 

\--twinArmageddons has become an active chum!—

 

You gulp. You’re not sure if She Who Steals Luck has smiled or glowered upon your prayer. You wait five more minutes. No one else comes online. You take a deep breath. Its fate then, and who are you to challenge the will of the gods? What seems questionable or frightening to your mortal mind is perhaps how things are to be.

Your hands are shaking when you grab your palmhusk.

 

\--caligulasAquarium has become an active chum!—

\--caligulasAquarium began pestering twinArmageddons!--

CA: uh

CA: hey there sol

TA: oh god2. what could you po22iibly want?

TA: ii thought ii fucking blocked you.

TA: you are liiterally the last fuckiing person ii want to talk to riight now.

CA: uh just want to

CA: talk

TA: about what fii2hface?

TA: for the last fuckiing tiime ii don’t want any part of your quadrant2.

TA: the fact you keep tryiing to make feferii au2piitiize between the two of u2 iis fuckiing pathetiic. ju2t cut iit out already and go be kii2me2i2 wiith 2omeone else.

TA: liike fuckiing kanaya. iim pretty sure 2he2 hated you 2iince miiddle school. 

CA: sol fuckin shut up for a minute

CA: it aint about that

CA: i

CA: i gotta ask you a favvor

TA: oh 2iignless iin a fuckiin handba2ket. what ii2 iit, fii2hface?

TA: what could you po22iibly want from me?

 

You stare at the mustard yellow words, gulping for breath. Here you go. Time to shame your ancestors and proud violetblood lineage. 

 

CA: i heard you got some money

CA: for your codin and stuff so

CA: i wwas wwonderin if maybe you wwould

CA: uh

TA: for fuck2 2ake fii2hface!

TA: 2piit iit out already before ii fuckiing log off!

 

Another deep breath. Here goes. You can do this.

 

CA: i need money

TA: how much money are we talkiing?

CA: 400B

TA: what iin fuck do you need that much boon for? are you a liimehead now?

CA: no sol

CA: i just need it to buy somefin for someone

CA: thats it

TA: whatever. iit2 not my concern iif you’re chuggiing liime or hangiing wiith the bee or whatever you’re really doing, giil2ucker.

TA: but how is thii2 my problem?

 

You honestly wish you were a soporin junkie or mind honey fiend; it would make this pathetic situation a little more bearable if you were really jonesing for a fix.

 

CA: i just need 400B right away and im wwilling to do anyfin to get it okay

CA: anyfin

CA: so

CA: yeah

TA: waiit.

TA: clariify 2omethiing for me here, fii2hface.

TA: you’re 2ayiing anythiing?

TA: what exactly does that entaiil?

CA: dont make me fuckin say it sol

TA: iif youre tryiing to wre2tle 400B from my claw2 iit2 gonna take more than ju2t “ii need iit riight away” to conviince me to giive iit to you. ii’m not a fuckiing chariity. ii got a lot of deadbeat2 already a2kiing me for ca2h. troll2 and other fuckface2 holdiing out theiir palm out demandiing 2ome boon

TA: so 2way me.

CA: okay fine

CA: its uh a blank check yknoww

CA: ill do wwhatever you wwant for 400B

CA: you can evven do like

CA: sexual things

CA: if you wwant

TA: ii want the full package for 400B.

CA: the full package

CA: wwhich is

TA: you got no iidea about the value of thiing2 huh? youre going to be a terriible pro2tiitute.  

CA: im not a prostitute

CA: this is just a onetime thing

TA: uh huh.

TA: 400B gets me bareback wiith your nook and wa2te chute.

CA: bareback

CA: wwastechute

CA: no fuckin wway sol

TA: then iit2 not happeniing.

CA: thats too far

TA: it2 my fuckiing money!

CA: wwhat if I get knocked up

TA: not my fuckiing problem!

CA: thats wway too fucking risky then

TA: youre a 2eatroll. you go iinto heat liike once every two year2 iif youre lucky 2o the chance2 of that happeniing are pretty low.

CA: i also got mutantblood in me sol

CA: my fertility cycles are erratic as all fuck

TA: lii2ten.

TA: you want my money or not?

CA: i do

CA: but i dont wwanna get knocked up

CA: cant you afford condoms

TA: condom2 are expen2iive as fuck for me and let2 leave iit at that.

TA: you want the money? then 2hut the fuck up and let2 2ee iif you actually have the bulge to do thii2.

CA: fuck you sol

CA: i got plenty of bulge to do anyfin

TA: bull2hiit.

CA: when do you want to do this

TA: tomorrow. my place ten o clock. dont chiicken out, fii2hface.

CA: just be there wwith the money pissblood

 

\--caligulasAquarium ceased pestering twinArmadgeddons!—

 

You sit back on your daybed. There. You did it. Now you have to just have to follow through. You can do this. You clutch your prayers beads, meditating over another prayer to offer up to Bona Fortuna Mala.

 

**== >Eridan: Don’t go through with this**

 

Not going through with it would be assigning your grandfather to the funerary pyre. You’re too young to live on your own right now, which means you’ll either end up living with your parents or end up becoming a ward of a state. Neither option is delightful. You see the bruises on Karkat’s face and arms everyone ignores. You’d probably experience less abuse living on the streets than with your parents.

 

**== >Eridan: Realize that death is an inevitable, that your grandfather is quite old, and medicine will only stall what must come. Don’t go through with this. **

That is very true but still, he is your grandfather. You know eventually the God of Time’s Clockworks collects all souls of the dying, severing their connection to life with one gentle swipe of the legendary Caledscratch. Then the souls are brought to his court and at the heart of Order and Time god’s court is the Life-Death Machine all must pass through—where souls are rewritten, scratched, or destroyed.

If your grandfather must die, it will be in the comfort of a nice hospital, surrounded by all the things that give him joy in life—not living in anguished misery, buried in worthless relics of the glorious past on a long dead planet.

When your grandfather dies, you’ll make sure it’s on his own terms, and with the dignity he deserves.   

 

 

 

 

You take off your clothes and climb into your recuperacoon. Sleep is what you need right now.

* * *

You learn an hour later that sleep was not what you needed because you were visited upon by your usual nightmares of loneliness and vivisection. You sit up, flinging sopor slime around you. You grunt and look over to the touch panel on the headboard. Your recuperacoon is an old model and sometimes the ratio of sopor to slime malfunctions. You see the panel is scrambled and bang on it with your fist.

“Come on. Come on! Come the fuck on already! I gotta sleep!”

Five pounds later the panel beeps, now unscrambled. You raise the soporific level to 70%, which is definitely what you need right now. You’ve been lectured enough in biology and chemistry about sopor and the effects on a body. 70% is a little on the high side for your hemotype but you need it.

 

 

 

 

You just need to sleep and think things over.

* * *

You wake up at seven o’ clock with a horrific headache, as if you’ve gone on a bender for three days and your body caught up with it. You decide to skip school because you’re unfocused and you don’t care about your grades anymore. You stumble out of your recuperacoon. You can worry later. You have chores to attend to.

You drain your grandfather’s recuperacoon. Discard the old slime. Fill the recuperacoon with soapy salty water. Sponge him down to get rid of the dried slime and keep his skin wet. Drain the recuperacoon a second time. Thankfully he is asleep throughout this ordeal. You replace the sopor slime and leave your grandfather in his recuperacoon to rest in warm slime until you return. You take out the garbage; put out the ant traps, place sardines in a saucer on the back porch to attract Lalonde’s stray cats, wash the dishes, put out the air fresheners in the living room, cook breakfast, shower, and get dressed.

You stare at your face in the mirror and scowl. There are noticeable bags under your eyes. The gills on your neck are knotted with scars. Your cheeks marked with that ugly spotting mutation that seems prevalent in your generation of seatrolls. Your chin has that ugly cleft and it’s too big. Your hips are bony.

You’re going to have to dress up for tonight. Captor lives on the other side of the park, meaning you’ll have to take a long walk over there in the evening and walk back without being recognized by any nosy neighbors.

And you need this money.

You have to make sure Captor gets his money’s worth or if he won’t fork it over. He’s a stingy pissblooded bastard. You can’t sway Captor with tears and you don’t want to. At least this way, you’ve earned the money. You’re not on the street begging for it and making sure everyone knows how desperate you are.

You get dress quickly and leave the trailer, heading to the bus stop. You still have your school ID so you can ride any regular bus for free all over New Jack City. Luckily you don’t have to go far. You can’t go to Park Avenue’s Goodwill because there are too many people there that would recognize you, like your mother working at Tulip’s next door. You don’t want another awkward conversation about what you’re doing out of school and coming up with creative lies to dodge the question. You ride the bus to Fairmont Street, which is at least two miles from the park. Fairmont Street is really no better though. It’s a series of stores by the highway—Pizza Hut, run down motels, liquor store, the decaying abandoned theatre, and the Goodwill. Across the street was the Fairmont Plaza, which included larger chain stores and buffet restaurants surrounding the giant Super Wal-Mart which is crowded at all times.

You spend fifteen minutes inside the Goodwill, browsing through the women’s clothes when your palmhusk vibrates. You look at it and see you’re finally getting a message from someone you thought you’d never talk to again.

 

\--cuttelfishCuller began pestering caligulasAquarium!--

CC:  U)(…)(ey -Eridan.

CC: Just wanted to talk to you again.

CC: Sea )(ow you were doing.

CC: Since we )(aven’t talked in a w)(ile. 38/

 

\--caligulasAquarium became an active chum!—

 

CA: hey fef

CA: wwhat are you up to

CC: Oh -Eridan! You actually responded t)(is time! 38o

CC: I’m not really doing muc)(! Mainly just…making plans for t)(ings.

CA: about before fef

CA: it

CA: wwhat i did wwas wwrong

CA: i should have realized you wwerent thinking straight and not

CA: done

CA: that

CC: -Eridan…

CA: Its okay, -Eridan. 38)

CA: fef howw can you say that

CA: its not okay

CA: its not okay by any stretch of the imagination fef

CC: Yea)( but I  )(ad a lot of time to do some t)(inking about w)(at )(appened…and I realized t)(at it wasn’t completely your fault.

CC: You don’t )(ave w)(at we call an “iron will”.

CC: You’re prone to impulse decisions that you regret later wit)( all your )(eart. And I get a…certain way…w)(en I )(ave my fits and I can’t control it, so it’s partially my fault too for ignoring t)(e warning signs and not taking my meds.

CA: harsh fef

CA: real harsh

CA: but i guess its true or you wwouldnt be in this mess

CC: Its not reely a mess, -Eridan. It’s more of a…really big adjustment.

CC: I t)(ink I was just frig)(tened before.

CC: W)(ic)( is wh)(y  I said all t)(ose awful t)(ings and tried to bite off your face and gouge your eyes and all t)(ose ot)(er terrible things but I t)(ought about it )(ard and now I feel a little bit beta about t)(ings.

CA: im still sorry fef

CA: i dont see howw you could forgivve me

CC: The Signless says t)(at it takes greater strengt)( to forgive t)(ose w)(o )(ave wronged you rat)(er t)(an let revenge consume your life.

CA: i dont believe in the signless but thanks anywways fef

CC: NON-ETH-EL-ESS! I’m saying t)(at I forgive you so you won’t )(ave t)(is guilt )(anging over your )(ead anymore. 3>8(

CA: yeah i understand that fef

CA: thanks for the sentiment i guess

CA: i gotta go

CC: Alright. Take care –Eridan. <>

CA: you too fef <>

\--caligulasAquarium ceased pestering cuttlefishCuller!—

 

You’re not surprised Feferi decided to forgive you after what happened. She’s Signless Orthodoxy and one of the precious few who isn’t a hypocrite (or at least this side of her isn’t).

 

 

 

 

You finish up your shopping and spend the ten boon you can spare. Hopefully, it’s enough to make Captor feel like handing over the money when all is said and done.

You don’t like to dwell on what happened with Feferi for long. It’ll just make things with Captor making complicated.

* * *

But in the end you need Feferi, just like she needs you. The best time to visit her is around seven. Meenah works from early evening until early morning, so you don’t have to worry about her. You both live on the other side of the park, along Two Boot Drive where the roads are always muddy year round and the gravel cracked in huge chunks. The roadsign had fallen over years ago and never been repaired by the DD. Meenah tossed two steel-toed boots with knotted laces over the electric wire at the start of the street to mark where you seatrolls lived.

They’ve stayed there ever since through monsoon rains and rapid winds, thus the damaged road earned its name.

Feferi greets you at the door with a wide fanged smile.

“I’m surprised you actually came over, Eridan! What do you need that you couldn’t tell me over Trollichum?”

“I need…” You mumble. Your face colors with violet. You hand over the plastic bag from the Goodwill.

Feferi looks at the contents and grins. “Oh… _oh!_ ” The seatroll mutant looks at you, chuckling. “You have a _date_?”

You don’t look at her. You nod. You can’t ever tell your moirail what you’re going to do. Feferi’s grin widens, showing off her small sharkteeth even more.

“I know exactly what you need! Let me show you how a fuschiablood does things!”

You take her chilled hand and she leads you into her well decorated bedroom.

Time becomes fluid once she tells you to relax and let her do her work. Feferi is a wizard with a minuscule brush, gently rubbing along your eye like a careful artist along a watercolor canvas. She paints your eyelids a pretty blue-violet to compliment the flush in your cheeks. She describe every shade in excited whispers: thistle for the cheeks, fandango for your thin black lips, byzantium for your eyes, and dabs of sweet plum to even out the rest of the grey. You have seen perfumed and eloquent bottles of polish and dye; in the shape of fishes, of conches, or cephalopod wonders. Heliotrope streaks for your hair and mulberry for your claws.

Her hands are large and soothing, claws filed down to keep her from harming herself and others during her fits. You feel them over your face as she smears patches of uneven powder into uniform smoothness.  

She only allows you to view yourself in her hand mirror when her work is complete.

 

 

 

 

“You look so beautiful, Eridan.” she whispers to you.

Her gentle fingers are on your bony shoulders; claws painted fuschia rose and fake gold bangles dangling from her soft wrists. You look like an early draft of a comedy routine; a bony little seadweller next to the curvy delicate one. You are wearing a violet tank top and plaid skirt. You run your fingers along your throat gills, feeling the scars.

“ _This_ …” you say, “…there must be somethin’ to cover _this,_ Fef _.”_

“Ab- _sole_ -utely not!” She is fiddling around with the many drawers inside the old dresser and pulls out a glass jar. She uncorks it and smears the contents along your damaged gills, before moving lower to your ticklish waist gills. It’s fragrant and filled with glitter. “You have to let him _sea_ the imperfections. It what makes you a perfectly beautiful troll.”

Feferi smiles, wrapping her big arms around your skinny little shoulders, “Look at us! Like twin clams in a shell.”

“Like always, Fef; just the two of us against the wide world.” You stand up, pulling up your thigh high socks. “I better head home and get ready to go out. Thanks for the help, Fef.”

“Good luck!” Feferi smiles. “I hope you win his heart over with your big smile.”

You smile back. “We’ll see, Fef. He’s a picky man.”

 

 

 

 

You hope to win over his money rather than his heart though. You need She Who Steals Luck on your side tonight. The Maestro will have to wait tonight.

* * *

You wear an overcoat and wrap a scarf over your head while you walk to Captor’s, taking the back way just to make sure no one guessing it’s you under your grandfather’s old clothes—which are incredibly baggy on you. You wade through your soggy back yard, already being slowly infected by marsh water.  

Captor’s trailer is a little too close to your parents for your own comfort. He’s just down the road from them. You go to the back door just to be safe. Something tells you your mother would recognize your grandfather’s overcoat and wonder who stole it. You knock at the door, fidgeting. You’d tug the scarf around your face more but then you might smear your makeup.

Captor answers the door, wearing no shirt and sweatpants. He looks you up and down and smirks, showing off the fangs crammed in his mouth.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” he cackles, “You actually _came._ You actually had the bulge to come over, fishlips.”

You glance around. Most people are inside at this hour, or already at work. You grunt, “Quit gawkin’ and let me in already, Sol.”

Captor chuckle and walks inside of the trailer. You look around the trailer, which is in no better shape than yours. The garbage is nearly overflowing and you swear you see the scurrying shadow of a rodent out of the corner of your eye.

You look at Captor, “You take me to the nicest places, pissblood. I’m surprised you didn’t want to meet in a Denny’s bathroom.”

Captor smirks. “I would if I wasn’t worried about catching a few diseases myself. Honestly, my trailer is a little _too_ classy for a slut like you, Ampora.” You glare at him and he lowers his ugly red-blue spectacles. You shudder; you’ve never seen the yellowblood without his glasses before. You thought they were just some weird fashion statement but now you’re staring at his mutant red-blue orbs. The thin veins in the sclera pulse with psionics, “Let’s see what’s under the coat.”

You gulp. Alright then. Time to do this. You unbutton the coat and shrug it off, exposing yourself to the chilled air in Captor’s trailer. Bumps of gooseflesh form along your naked thighs. You should have worn a longer skirt, or at least a thicker one. Its summer outside but inside it feels like October with the air conditioner running. Slowly, you pull off the scarf and show your hair and scarred throat gills smeared with glitter.  

Captor chuckles. “Looks like someone helped you get all dolled up. You might be made for this new career after all.”

“Shut _up_.” you grunt.

“Hey, is that any way to talk to a client?” Captor walks close to you and tugs at the skirt hem, “I should throw you out that door for being so rude and let your pimp deal with you.”

You feel his claw inching up your skin. “I ain’t got a pimp, Sol. _Quit it!_ ” You whack the curious hand, which retreats. “I ain’t gonna let you just feel and squeeze as much you want.”

“Oh, so now you have a ‘no touching’ policy? Give me a break, Ampora. Only strippers like Aradia’s Mom can say that. I’m not forking over 400B just to watch you take off your clothes. I could see that shit online.”

“Nice to know how you spend your evenins, Captor.” You fold your arms. “I ain’t a piece of meat. I still got my dignity.”

“A whore’s dignity. I wonder if you could measure that in grams.” Captor walks to the back of the trailer, “Come on, Mr. High Class Whore. You’re lucky my bedroom is the best place for this sort of thing.”

“I ain’t a _whore_!” you hiss, following him.

You hear soft snoring come from the room next to Captor’s and assume that bedroom belongs to his mother. Your knowledge of Mituna Captor comes from what you heard at school. You know your grandfather (before he became ill) knew Captor’s grandfather and said his son Mituna was very much the same in temperament—very cut off emotionally and calculating.

Or at least Mituna was that way before the burn out that destroyed his mind and motor skills.

Captor’s bedroom is the headquarters of all the nerds in your school fused into one living area. The walls are crowded with papers scrawled with equations, posters of online RTS games and MMORPGS. There is a husktop pushed into the corner with red and blue wires running in and out of the beehouse mainframes stashed underneath the desk. You can see the small purple bees running in and out of the honeycomb cells contained inside the see-through casing. Captor’s recuperacoon sits next to the window with a daybed placed next to it. Narrow and only meant for one.  

You stare the daybed. The blankets are purple with a smiling bee pattern. Captor smirks at you, “Oh, what’s wrong, Eridan? Never seen a daybed before? You must have just _molted_.”

“Shut the fuck up, Sol.” You sit on the daybed, grumbling, “So what now?”

Captor tilts his head, “What do you mean what now?”

You lean back, glaring at him, “What do you want me to _do_ , you lisping _athole_.”

“Are you new at this? You’re a terrible whore. I should just go to Park Avenue and risk hepatitis for someone with _skill_.”

“Just get this over with already, Captor. I have an exam to study for.”

“Not yet.”

Captor shoves you back. He grabs your legs and lifts them up, pushing them apart. You sit up a little and see him smirking. You want to ask what in the fuck is going through that mutated bifurcated brain of his but you need the money. Better not ask too many questions. Just lay back and deal with it. You shut your eyes. Go to your happy place. Think of anything else but Captor’s skinny wandering fingers.

“Violet panties? Are you really that hemotype obsessed, Ampora?”

You can close your eyes but you can’t blot out your sense of touch. Warm fingers glide over the thin material covering your bulge. Your bulge twitches in near-arousal. That just encourages him, you think, because he gets more daring with you. He fingers slide past the cloth barrier and rub against the outer rim of your nook. You shudder as a finger prods further; a single warm finger sliding into the moist chill of your violet nook. A hot foreigner invaded you’ve never felt before.

Stay calm. Stay calm…

He strokes the wall of your nook. You tremble and on reflex, your muscles clamp. You shut your legs. Captor’s breath hitches a little. The finger stills. You hear the daybed creak as he leans in close, hearing his breath in his finned ear. He whispers in your ear,

“Holy shit, gillslut…are you…a _virgin_?”

You frown and keep your eyes shut. The finger wedged inside of you moves up and down. You moan, clenching your teeth.

“F-fuck you, Sol…”

“I guess the rumor about you being as slutty as Nitram was just bullshit. Do you even touch yourself down here when you’re jerking off or do you just rub on your bulge?” The finger move in and out. You moan louder. Captor snickers, “Calm down, fishboy. It’s _just_ a finger.”

You feel something else press at your nook entrance and shiver when another digit is added.

“And now it’s two.” Captor whispers.

“Fuck…Sol…take them _oooouut_.” The fingers thrust with more force into your nook.

You jolt. Your claws dig into the mattress. You grind your fangs. Captor’s other hand grabs your knee, pushing your legs back open. The finger push in deeper.

“Sol. Don’t… _ahhh…_ fuck! Don’t just…”

The fingers still once again. A warm hand rolls the cheap silk of your panties over your thighs. Your bulge is writhing now, aware of Captor’s intimate touches and wanting more. Captor snickers again. You feel a warm finger trace the underside of your bulge, rubbing the main vein.

“Even down here you’re cold.” His thumb press against the main vein and you gasp, “So, you’ve never been fucked before? By anyone?”

You growl at him, still not opening your eyes. The finger slide out and you grunt in frustration. Your nook twitches, now feeling neglected and empty once more. You hear something unzip and clothes fall to the ground. Your panties slide lower until they’re finally discarded. Something warm and narrow pushes at your nook. Your eyes snap open. Captor is leaning over you. Thin fingers grip your waist. He moves forward and the tip of bulge pushes against your nook. It’s easy for the tip to get in.

It’s the first ridge where the true thickness begins that’s a struggle. A hiss escapes your clenched teeth. You spread your legs wider. You can do this. You just need the money. Focus. Focus on making sure Captor pays in the end.

Then you feel something nudge at your waste chute.

“W-what in glubbin’ fuck is _that?!_ ” You try to sit up but Captor grabs your shoulder, pushing you back down again. “Sol, unless you got three hands you better tell me what in fuck _that_ is—”

“Calm the fuck down, mega-chin. It’s my bulge.” Captor responds in that irritating matter-of-fact tone.

“It feels like a bulge fuckface but you already got the one in my nook!” The not-bulge rubs against your waste chute. You feel warm fluid drip from there. “W-wait…do you…”

Captor smirks, “Looks like the slowest pony finally crosses the finish line. Let me reward you, fishlips.”

“What in fuck are you— _ah!_ ”

Captor thrusts into your nook with a grin. The bulge in your nook pushes past the first and second ridge. The other bulge makes its way inside your waste chute. You wheeze; your body trying to adjust for not one but two bulges making their way inside of you. You grunt and roll your hips to adjust. A tremor goes through Captor. A skinny hand slaps your ass.

 

 

 

 

“Mmm, that’s it…” You look up at Captor’s narrow face and see it’s beaded with sweat now. “Gods, it’s like sticking my bulge in an ice tray.”

You pant and then smirk, “Worse or _beta_ than Fef…?”

Captor scowls. A hand slides over your ass and you feel a flick of electricity, punctuated with another quick thrust.

“Ow! _Hey_! None of that! I’m not into pain _ahh_ and being _ow_ flicked with your stupidfuck _ow!_ Psionics! Knock it off, Sol! _Fuck! Ow!_ ”

 

 

 

 

It’s hard to be pissed at someone while they insist on fucking you with both of their mutant duplicate bulges. You moan louder as your argument and resolve dissolve, ebbed away by Captor’s thrusts and your overstimulated nook and waste chute. You feel them rubbing against you inside of your body.

You don’t know if you came once or twice because of the two bulges writhing inside you.  

* * *

 

You shower afterwards, watching yellow and violet genetic fluids swirl down the drain. Captor’s bathroom isn’t what you expect it to be. It’s very clean and there is a cabinet of neatly organized rubber duckies over the sink. You wonder who those could belong to and then you remember Captor’s brain-dead mother. Fef’s makeup washes off easily too, but you don’t worry about reapplying. The job’s done now. You don’t need to look like a painted up doll anymore.

At least for now.  

You return to the bedroom. Captor is sitting at his husktop, typing away with his back to you.

“Money’s on the daybed.” he tells you, not looking.

You walk over to the bed and count. 400B collected in a stack of 50B bills. You look at the currency, made of metal foil printed with bright colors. You remember one of the humans at WalMart muttering that the international currency of New Earth was “as colorful as a queer parade”. You’re not sure what a queer is but maybe it’s slang for a colorful animal. Maybe a bird.

You slide on the skirt and tanktop.

“Some of my genetic fluid got on your skirt,” Captor says, “You planning on walking home in that condition?”

“No one else will notice in the dark.” You stash the bills in your skirt pocket. You do the math in your head: 400B to go toward your grandfather’s medication. You need 4200B total.

10B for a five-pack of morning-after contraceptive pills…

You can worry about contraceptive later on. Like Captor said, your seadweller biology doesn’t have you constantly worrying about a strong heat cycle. You’re lucky if an iceblood like you manages to have more than two kids in their entire lifetime, or if anyone would even notice if you were more fertile than usual.

Right now you have to find another client with cash.

“I’m tapped out for the next month so don’t come sniffing around here for more cash, fucking or not,” Captor says. 

“I’m good, Sol. There’s plenty of people I can do besides a pissblood in this neighborhood.”

 

 

 

Particularly there’s one place you can go, though you’re not fond it. You don’t say goodbye to Captor as you put the overcoat and scarf back on and exit the trailer. You’re limping from the double dose of bulge to your nook and waste chute.  


	2. eridan

You get most of your business waiting outside of the local strip club, the Nook ‘n’ Cranny. You know Megido’s mother along with a few other women work here from evening to early morning. It’s the perfect place to wait like a shark in the water, attracting the attention of clients just by hanging around.

Two days pass and you learn the tricks of the trade quickly. You can put on your own makeup. You can match shades of powder and lipsticks to their cosmopolitan names and the effects they have in your clients. Electric purple for your lips and heliotrope on your cheeks makes you look younger; those clients will pay more but you don’t know how you feel about it. Those men are old enough to be your grandfather and enjoying the rare treat of a seatroll giving it up for boons.      

Pansy purple lipstick and pomp and flower powder makes you seem older. You get lurking suburban college kids, looking for no strings attached sex on the cheap.  

You forget about school entirely. It’s not your concern right now. If your grandfather doesn’t survive, you don’t have a very bright future. It’s not like you cared about school anyways. Your grandfather was impartial to your grades and thought it was a fretfully backwards notion that everyone was lumped into one building for daily education.

You avoid truant officers on top of cops now, though the cops don’t hassle you very often. You’re a seatroll and not high on their warning list. The NJPD think of you as just a weird group with your own culture and religion separate to other trolls. The government likes having you around to do the filthiest work in the city no human can do—sewer maintenance, river and lake dredging for garbage, aquatic pollution testing, and (worst of all) shipbreaking. 

You store your work money under your daybed in a locked box. Originally the box had been for your religious stuff—your bottles of sacred salts and holy water, smudge sticks, rune tiles, incense, divining cards and maps. You stuff the materials in an old crate (removing the copies of Troll Harry Potter and The Graphic Novel Adventures Of Occultism Featuring A Young Boy Wizard That Is Similar Yet Different to Troll Harry Potter Taking Place In The DC Universe comics).

You have 1990B so far.

Everyday your grandfather’s coughing worsens. You have to step up your game tonight if you don’t want him to get beyond the point of saving. You’ve only been able to do four clients a night since you have to walk back home, shower, count out the money, and check on your grandfather’s condition. Sometimes you can push the limit to five or seven if it’s just blowjobs and handjobs, but those are less.

 

You’re doing this for him. All for him. Just as he protected you and cared for you when you were just a grub, you’re doing the same for him. It’s only fair.

You grab your skirt and slide it on. You visited the Goodwill again to pick up something in black You wear it better and it hides the stains. You offer a prayer to Bona Mala Fortuna, toss on your overcoat, and leave your trailer.

* * *

You cannot see the stars here; a thick cloud smog obscures the,. You remember being newly molted and having met Feferi for the first time. She was spiritual even when young. She’d tell you the story of the Glass Goddess and the Dreaming Dead.

You wheeze a little and wonder if your lung’s collapsed from the beating they gave you. In retrospect, this was a stupid as fuck idea. You should have known the man was dangerous from the Capricorn sigils tattooed on his arms. One for each year he did in prison. Capricorn Brotherhood. The Sons of Alternia’s monstrous big brothers. While the Sons of Alternian were just pissed off trolls who blamed their miseries on humans and thought the old world was a paradise, the Capricorn Brotherhood was a prison-exclusive purpleblood-exclusive gang. Their motivation was to kill all humans and enslave every warmblood on sight. They didn’t recognize the superiority of the old hemocaste and most had a giant chip on their shoulder regarding seatrolls.

A giant, angry, murderous chip.

One of which you encountered tonight. Mainly, you encountered their claws and foot in your chest and stomach when you finished the one job and wanted to turn down his friends. You’re pretty sure they robbed you too, but you’re not a hundred percent on that. Somewhere in between that bleeding cut on your cheek and the bruise on your inner thigh, you blacked out.

You lay on the puke and alcohol scented garbage outside of one of the more questionable strip clubs…named…what was it again? The Battle of the Bulge. Yes. Of course it would have that name. It’s quite the distance away from home so you took the bus here, but there’s no way in fuck you can ride the bus home now. Not in this condition.

Fuck, you can’t even _move_ in this condition.

You concentrate trying to see the stars; concentrate on listening to your moirail’s soft voice. Pretend she’s here right beside you, stroking your hair and telling you it’s going to be alright and that pain in your chest is definitely not a cracked rib.

_Shoosh._

_Eridan listen._

_The sky is dotted with the stars and every other star is a dreambubble dripped from the eyes of the Glass Goddess._

_What are dreambubbles?_

_They’re the memories of the dead concentrated in one bubble of reality and the Glass Goddess protects them all._

_When the world was young and the first people climbed along this rock, the Glass Goddess laid in the sun to warm herself while her brother He Who Slays Hope went through the world and cut away the hopeless dreams and ambitions of those who could not fulfill them. But He Who Slays Hope was deeply envious of his sister, who was worshipped by mortals and not feared like he was._

_So he destroyed his sister’s hopes of love and in her misery, she took her own life. Banished from the realm of mortals, the Glass Goddess remained among the souls of the dead and those who wandered in-between the realms of gods and mortals:  demigods, lesser spirits, ancient forgotten gods, and the fair folk._

_And the Glass Goddess watches over the Dreaming Dead with a hopeful and forgiving heart as big as this blue-marble planet…_

You wheeze, and think of Feferi but you can’t even remember her voice now. Your vision is darkening. You can see the headline now: Seadwelling Beauty Dies From Injuries in Filthy Alley in Skid Row.

 

You realize at the last minute of awareness that you’re scared of death’s volcanic hot embrace. That you’re frightened of the incredibly sharp blade of Caledscratch severing your soul from your body, giving you quick painless death. 

* * *

You wake up to the smell of sweet smoke. Your body is a knot of aches and pains. It hurts to even flex your fingers. Your left eye is swollen shut. With your one good eye, you observe your surroundings. Incense burns on a table next to you. Cloth scrolls hang on the walls with the depiction of the gods printed on them. You recognize the God of Blood and Haze easily—a mutantblood troll of ambiguous gender, serpents draped over his shoulders and a velvet robe hanging off him that barely covers his nudity. He sits on the back of one of his monstrous children, the basilisk. There are other gods on scrolls taking up every inch of the small room, but it’s nothing to write home about. Every church and corner store sells religious wall scrolls.

The door opens and you see an older dark skinned rustblood enter with only a sheer skirt wrapped around her waist. Her hair is pinned back into a bun. A cigarette hangs off her lips.

She looks at you and speaks in Old Alternian with a sneer, “Looks like the little slut finally woke up from her beating. You’re lucky it was just clients and not a whore or pimp sticking a knife between your skinny ribs for cutting in on their business.”

You growl, showing your teeth. “I speak Old Alternian, bitch.”

The sneer doesn’t disappear. “So you’re smarter than I originally thought, _Ampora_.”

“So you are a whore like the rest of us thought, _Megido.”_ you respond in Old Alternian.

The rustblood chuckles and sits on the edge of the bed. “I should toss you out in the street, bruises and all for everyone to see.” She breathes out a stream of grey smoke, “I wonder what your parents would say, or would they even be surprised at your condition?”

“Why did you bring me here?”

“Because I hate to see a good whore go to waste.”

“I’m not a whore.”

“Someone who has sex for money: whore or not?”

You sink lower into the bed, “I am someone between a rock and a hard place.”

“Desperate enough to bring yourself down to the level of those who walk the Red Path.”

“I am no _whore_.” you growl.

“And yet you already do the divine lustful works of Blood and Haze. Why not commit yourself fully to the job?”

You don’t say anything. She inhales more nicotine and blows out another cloud. “How much money do you need?”  

You don’t look at her. “4200B.”

“Quite a pretty penny.” She stands up, “You’ll die of syphilis before you ever collect all of it at the rate you’re going.”

“I won’t take a loan; especially not from… _you._ ”

“If I could offer loans at that lump sum I wouldn’t be living in this place, now would I, Ampora? What I offer is partnership. You need better skills if you’re going to make that money and you’re not going to get it sucking off people in back alleys. You need to have skills to pay your bills.”

“Which I’m guessing you know.”

“Ten percent and I’ll teach you how my skills.”

“And why should I do that?”

“What keeps your clients from going to any other whore? The problem with our line of work is that our customers are fickle. When one of us gets locked up, they’ll just go to someone else and not give two shits! Or at the first line of age or great imperfection, they will be utterly shocked and soon another whore shall rule them.” She cackles, “Such is the way of the world.”

You press your lips into a thin unhappy line. You try not to let your annoyance show through.

“Five percent.”

“Ten. Take it or leave it, Ampora.”

 

Wily rustblood bitch. You nod. “Fine.”

* * *

You leave the trailer in spare casual pants and clothes that look strangely familiar. The only thing you still have that’s yours are your heels and you don’t feel like wearing them. You carry them as you walk along the paved road. You don’t care who sees you now. It’s late at night. It’s probably past midnight; meaning it’s just become Friday.

You missed a whole week of school and you don’t give a shit. You’re limping to your trailer in borrowed clothes, coming from the trailer of a well-known troll of ill repute. You don’t give a shit about that either. You just don’t give a shit about a lot of things now. It’s not like you’re not anyone who has to live up to a higher standard anymore. You’re not a seadwelling prince. You’re not a highblood. You’re not a wizard or anything.

You’re just a coldblood trying to go home with aching feet and a slight limp from the beating your client gave you not just a few hours ago.

You’re just an alien.

You’re just another piece of trailertrash.

Cronus’s hoverbike passes by you, heading home after a long day of work. He stinks of woman’s cheap and flowery perfume.

He doesn’t stop the bike and you don’t look at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might buy you Crist', but that about it  
> Might light your wrist, but that about it  
> Fuck it, I might wife you and buy you nice whips  
> Ma, but you really gotta ride nice dick  
> Know how to work your hips and your head's priceless  
> Profess you love the Hov', and I'll never let you down  
> \- Troll Tori Amos


End file.
